The Wicker Tree by Robin Hardy Page A

asked. Steve, still wearing his hat, seemed ill at ease.
    'This is Steve Thomson,' said Beth. 'I guess you'd call him my fiancé. Right Steve? We've made like a commitment.'
    'To help fund a mission? Is that right?' the Reverend McLeod was clearly unsure.
    'No sir,' said Steve. 'Our commitment is – well, we've promised to save it for marriage. We call it our Silver Ring Thing.' They both smilingly held up their hands to show their rings, looking at the slightly surprised faces around them. 'Tough huh? But we're both Redeemers you know. Like the Choir. Only when they go home, we're staying behind to like spread the Word.'
    The conductor had now appeared on the stage and was signalling to the Reverend McLeod that he was ready for Beth. Glad to be at last able to regain her own medium, she smiled her farewells to the Morrisons and the Reverend, planted a light kiss on Steve's cheek and hurried across to the stage.
    The Reverend excused himself to Lachlan and Delia and, taking Steve by the arm, led him to a chair in the nave where he would have a good view of the rehearsal. On the way, he gently removed Steve's hat from his head and handed it to him.
    This left Lachlan gazing admiringly after Beth's retreating form. The organist was floating chords out into the enormous nave while small rehearsals or meetings of musicians were going on in various parts of the cathedral.
    'What a very beautiful girl,' said Lachlan. 'Another Redeemer you see. What a little star. If she can really sing.'
    'A country girl, I'd bet,' said Delia. 'Yes, she is beautiful in a cornfed, apple-cheeked way. I bet she smells of the dairy. A musky bush, milky tits and just a hint of warm cow's dung behind the ears.'
    'Does that mean you approve of her?' asked Lachlan, amused.
    Delia was laughing now. 'And that poor Steve, waiting till his wedding day. It's another world over there in America, isn't it? Oh look, they're fixing up a microphone for Beth. None of these pop people can really sing.'
    But even as the orchestra warmed up and the conductor conferred with Beth she was quietly indicating that the microphone should be removed. The Glee Club were drifting back from the pub, being chivvied along by a tall lady with wiry, iron-grey hair and an imperial bosom, 'the lovely Adelaide'.
    Lachlan had drifted off to gather his Glee Club for their preperformance pep talk. Delia remained standing in the middle of the aisle watching Beth, almost willing her to be less than was clearly expected by the Reverend McLeod and hyped by the media. Now Beth had stepped forward. The conductor, his baton raised, glanced from Beth to the leader of the orchestra and back to Beth. His hands gave the signal. Delia saw the huge breath she took. Now came the voice:
    'I know that my Redeemer liveth…'
    The sound was literally enormous. The purity of the voice. The richness of tone. The absolute mastery of the long drawn-out phrase. There could be, Delia knew, no corner of that great building that had not heard with absolute clarity the exquisitely conveyed message: Beth is certain her Redeemer is alive.
    Apart from the voice and the orchestra, total silence had fallen on people in all parts of the cathedral. Delia who, not for nothing, lived with a man whose chief aesthetic pleasure was music, was aware that for Handel the impact of the first performance of the oratorio at St Patrick's Cathedral in Dublin was the stuff of musical legend. But she found it hard to imagine a greater impact then than the sound of Beth Boothby singing it now in Glasgow Cathedral.
    Delia saw Lachlan turn from staring at Beth, to look across the nave at her, to signal to her the importance of the moment. It was rare to see astonishment on his face. But she saw it now. She knew what he would be thinking. Beth was the one they must have. But how?
    She wondered, as she walked towards where Steve was seated, whether Lachlan had really registered the young man, so impressed had he been with the young woman.
    She